Thundercats are go

There are certain, seemingly inane moments in your life that you know you're going to remember forever and a day. Moments that shine through the fug of memories you collect and you know with absolute certainty that in ten, twenty, thirty, whatever-years time you'll still be able to remember everything about them. The sounds, the smells, what you were wearing, how you felt. All wrapped up in this pocket, tucked away in a little neuron in the back of your brain ready to be accessed whenever you need it. Whenever you need to travel back through time in your head and think clearly about the person you were versus the person you became.

I had two of those moments yesterday. It's rare for you to know in advance but, in this case, I honestly do.

Saturday night had involved a failed cinema plan that was usurped by drinking instead. Although I wanted very badly to see The Orphanage (which, strangely I've already sat down and watched in a dream. This happens sometimes, the last time that happened it was with There Will Be Blood and, as I recall, I was puzzled when I went to see it in real-life as there were certain scenes I didn't see that had been in my dream previously. I have the very definition of an overactive imagination and, as such, a wildly vivid dreamscape on offer to me most nights) going to a cocktail bar that can only be accessed by winding your way up a spiral staircase made out of an intricate bronze moldings is always worth it. I'm still in awe of this cocktail I had (of which I've forgotten the name) that involved vodka, apple juice and peach schnapps. Anything where you get to say, 'mmm - nice schnapps' whilst bitching and admiring the various clientele is always worth the effort.

Anyway, suffice it to say, Sunday I was just planning to sleep in and then spend the rest of the day in jim jams and bathrobe. Possibly, at some point in the afternoon, throw on some fake eyelashes and new wig and drink ice water out of a martini glass whilst listening to The B-52's. You know, the usual. However, instead of sleeping and being left to continue a dream where I was riding around in a taxi that was paid for on my expense account (I'd just reached the taxi depot and was trying to find the red wellington's I'd left somewhere in the back) my mother burst into my room with the following announcement:

'[Step-sister]'s had a 7lb 4oz baby boy and it's snowed'

I twisted awkwardly around and sat up to throw open my curtains and by god, it had snowed. Flakes that were the exact size that spiders have to be before I find them really scary were slowly meandering down to the ground. The world was a 3D 'paint by numbers' just waiting to be filled in. It was stunning. But, as if that wasn't enough to take in, step-sister had had a baby boy. This precious little cargo that had been a kind of ethereal concept before (albeit one that was looming fairly obviously right out in front of her at all times as a constant reminder that 'Hiya! I'm here! I'll be born one day!') was now out of her belly and in the world and real. Just like with the snow, I'd been told it was going to happen. On Saturday night when even my beer/cocktail/wine coat couldn't keep me warm the evidence had pointed towards it snowing. Just as the fact that step-sister had been fairly obviously pregnant for ever and ever had sort of tipped me off that a baby would be born eventually. But now the snow had laid and the baby was born. To coin a phrase; it fucked my shit up well bad dawg (in a good way. In nothing but a good way).

The snow was awesome. For maybe the first time in my life I gave up on sleeps to go play outside. The dogs loved it until their fur made it so they got snowballs instead of feet (which was HIL-AR-I-OUS) and went absolutely mental. The sun was straining to make it's way through the clouds but the thick greyness hung heavy in the air and stood its ground - for a little while at least - and I made the most of it while it did. But that moment, of being awoken with those two little facts on a normal Sunday in April when all I'd been looking forward to that day was some Columbo and a cup of tea or five and reading the paper uninterrupted, and looking out my window and it dawning that those two facts were indeed truth. That will stay with me always.

Later on, in the sunny evening (seriously though - wtf) when all the snow had disappeared and all that was left to prove it had not in fact been part of one of my elaborate dreams was unmelted-but-looking-to-be-in-some-distress snowman and the occasional white roof top, we drove to the maternity ward to see the baby. I had to sit outside for a while with the new dad (only two visitors allowed in to see mama and baby at a time). You want to see someone the happiest they'll possibly ever be? Go hang out with a new dad. I can't put into words the feeling of terror and joy he was emanating from every pore. He was utterly exhausted, completely overwhelmed, and frankly 100 per cent elated; 'I know you two are going to be kick-ass parents for shizz' is how I chose to comfort the sleep deprived, starving hungry, emotional 19 year old that now has a child of his own to care for. But, on reflection, I think it was kind of perfect to say that. It's exactly what I would want to hear in his shoes. And the best part is that I really believe it. Him and her are funny and silly and clever and awesome. They will make kick-ass parents.

Mama looked no less elated but infinitely more exhausted. Yet also strangely calmer, like she just knows she's got to get on with this now. Baby is as yet unnamed and baby is amazing. Baby has wrinkled hands and feet which are too big in comparison to his tiny little body (my mum likened it to how labradors often have limbs that are too big for them which makes them all clumsy and cute whilst they're puppies but signifies their eventual height in the meantime. I said it may be best to not liken newborn baby to dog in front of newborn's new mum). Baby has a conehead where she stopped pushing at a critical moment (alas I've been told this will soon correct itself as how cool would it be to have a constant reminder of a Dan Ackroyd movie in your family? Plus, as the new Dad said, 'Conehead the Barbarian would make an awesome name for him'. I suggested 'Columbo', middle name: 'Isawesome' but I don't think they're going to go for it. Which, thank God, cos that's totes what my first born - boy or girl - will be called). But whatever they call baby, when baby grows up something is going to click in my head every now and again and I'm going to remember looking down at this weird looking sleepy little guy with his tiny finger-and-toenails. Looking into his eyes which seemed to be conveying a feeling that pitched itself halfway between bewilderment and pissed-offness (wouldn't you be?) and at his tiny toothless mouth and button nose, and thinking 'dude, you're so awesome'. And you know what? I really think he will be.